


Functional

by Cosmic_Joke



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dark, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Bucky Barnes, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Stucky sort-of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 22:36:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2405414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmic_Joke/pseuds/Cosmic_Joke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky has joined SHIELD and fights alongside Captain America.  Bucky's determined to make good on his second chance and protect Steve, no matter what.  Bucky knows he's not quite the person Steve wants, but at least he's "functional."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Failure

Twice. He’d let them through to Steve twice. Not even “just” once. Twice. Bucky’s train of thought looped around that, spiraling in on itself, tightening like a noose until only the word "twice" echoed in his head. He could feel his heart hammering against the inside of his rib cage. In the quiet he became acutely aware of the small beads of sweat dripping down his face. The salt stung his tightly shut eyes and he wiped the beads away with balled fists. His nails dug into his flesh palm, leaving angry little half moons. He slowly opened his eyes, as if staring into bright light, but the room was dark, save for a small digital clock. “3:42” burned into the Soldier's retinas. It’d been 16 hours.

He was allowed to live with Steve, to protect him. It didn’t matter if SHIELD allowed him to or not; he would have followed Steve anyway, but it was nice to have a roof and food every night. Not that he really deserved such things. When people live together, both have to contribute something. SHIELD wages paid for their condo; his wage was for helping Steve. Protecting Steve. And he’d messed up. 16 hours ago. He hadn’t earned this. Steve didn’t deserve this. He stood and paced up and down the bedroom. Even with his heavy steel-toed boots, the Soldier made hardly a sound, decades of training muffling each angry stride. Besides, he didn’t want to wake up Steve in the next room. Pressing his ear to their shared wall, he listened for Steve. Ever so faintly, he made out the sound of Steve breathing softly and evenly, asleep. Compulsively checking the window and the door - both closed - he flicked on the dim lamp beside his bed. The fingers of his human hand traced up the cool metal siding of his left arm, running over the grooves in search of the right panel. Stopping, he found it and gently prised the latch open. With a well oiled click the panel slid back to reveal a row of minuscule buttons. With the top open, Bucky could hear the faint electric hum of his arm. His fingers danced gingerly over the buttons, each identical and unmarked. The people who had pressed them had known which was which. Now though, it was just him. Almost experimentally, Bucky pushed the third button. As soon as he released the pressure, sharp pain shot up his arm, making him open his mouth to gasp, but no sound came out.

  
The biofeedback controls had been installed as early as the first arm as an easy way to control him. There was a remote even at some point. Pain is but the right series of shocks and chemicals, nothing difficult for the HYDRA scientists. Plenty of pain, no damage. The perfect training tool for the Asset. He could have destroyed it, when he joined SHIELD, but he didn't. Old habits die hard and 70 years was hard to undo. Failure meant pain. That was irrevocably programmed into him. He was still the Soldier, in a way, but now he took orders from Captain America, probably the most perfectly moral person in the world. He was going good now. But that didn't mean he didn't still kill, and it didn't mean he regretted killing HYDRA agents either. No one would hurt him if he didn't complete his missions, but... His thoughts trailed off. He didn't want to say it felt wrong, or that he missed it, but his routine had been upset. The nice way, the normal way as he was to understand it, didn’t make sense anymore.

  
Steve had gotten hurt though. That was the bottom line. He'd failed his mission and Steve had been hurt as the result. While Steve could forgive - did forgive - Bucky, he shouldn't. So Bucky had to take these things into his own hands. He'd been given an impossible, undeserved second chance and he refused to mess up again. His hand drifted further down the row of buttons. With less hesitation this time, he held down a different button, counted a few seconds, and gingerly let go. A fresh wave of pain washed over him, as if his bones had splintered, driving sharp shards into his arm, shredding him from the inside out. The pain lasted only a few seconds before vanishing suddenly, leaving him panting and shaking ever so slightly. In those few seconds, a strangled moan, on the cusp of a scream, had escaped his lips. As soon as he felt alright to stand, he rushed to the wall to listen for Steve's breathing. After a few seconds of baited breath, he could make out the even, peaceful sounds of sleep.

  
Satisfied, he went back to the bed and took off his shirt, wincing slightly as the light material brushed the raw edges of the day's wounds. Even with his heightened healing abilities, a bullet graze was still plenty painful, if only for a few days. The tender raw flesh was bound safely below too soft bandages, but as his fingers traced the edges of the wounds, he could not help but wince at the small twinges of pain. He was tempted to take off the bandages and toy with the slowly closing edges, to rip out the stitches and leave a pain that would last, but he pulled back as soon as he began to unwrap the cloth. If he hurt himself like that, he wouldn’t be able to do his job. And to be unable to do his job was to risk hurting Steve. And that could not be allowed. Blinking hard, he turned back to the small panel hidden on the inside of his bicep. A broken rib. Steve had a broken rib. Bucky tried to guess which level might equal a broken rib and then went up a little higher. He stuffed the corner of the t-shirt into his mouth and put his finger on the button. He wouldn’t let Steve down again. His finger jumped another button higher. He’d do anything for Steve. Another button higher. He should have died for Steve so many times over, anything to protect Steve. The world needed Steve far more than it needed Bucky. One more button. Shutting his eyes, he pushed down on the button. Counting the seconds, he dared himself to wait a little longer, make it last a little longer, conjuring up the image of Steve on the bridge, bloodied beneath his hands, falling into the river. Thirty seconds. A little longer, and he let go.

  
He’d hurt worse, he remembered that somewhere in the back of his mind, as the pain ripped through him, like a wave turning his vision white. He bit down his teeth to drown out the scream he couldn’t hear and honed in on the pain, chanting to himself, “Protect Steve,” until those words too were drowned out by the wave of agony. When it felt like the pain searing through his body might never let up, he collapsed into black.

  
He awoke with a dry mouth, the cotton t-shirt leaving an acrid taste in his mouth, like he’d thrown up. He’d fallen nearly off the bed, his shoulder bent back at a strange angle, pulling on the tight scar tissue where the arm fused to his shoulder. His neck felt stiff and his head throbbed with every beat of his slightly too fast heartbeat. 4:10. He brought himself to his feet, still shaky from the aftermath of his fried nerves, but stood with a practiced disregard and leaned a little too much against the wall to listen for Steve. He heard nothing for a whole minute and his heartbeat sped even faster. Had he been too loud? Was Steve awake? Bucky kicked off his boots, and threw himself into bed, pulling the bedsheets over his too pale skin. He slid the panel door shut and grabbed the wadded t-shirt from on top of the covers. “Breath in, breath out,” he counted rhythms to himself, slowed his breathing, as if he were calm and sleeping. After a dragged out minute he heard footsteps in the hall, the familiar gymnast-soft tread. The steps passed Bucky’s door to the left, the bathroom then. With a quiet but relieved sigh, Bucky let his head sink into his pillow, and fell quickly into a dark sleep. He dreamed, but he couldn’t remember what.

 

He awoke at 8:29, precisely 30 seconds before his alarm clock, enough time to roll over and hit it. Bucky didn’t actually need an alarm clock, he was good with schedules, but it was the sort of thing normal people did, so he’d decided to try it. In a few minutes, Steve would be back from his run with Sam, giving Bucky enough time to tidy up and pretend he’d just woken up. He changed quickly into the nearest pair of loose pants, a grey t-shirt, and pulled a hoodie over it all. It wasn’t that cold in the house, but neither Steve nor Bucky were particularly fond of the cold. About 4 and a half hours of sleep, Bucky calculated. He’d love to lie back down, but it would tip off the Captain that he’d been awake all night. Throwing last night’s shirt in the hamper (Steve was a neat guy and didn’t like clothes being left on the ground), Bucky ducked into the bathroom, bare feet cold against the tiles. He ran a finger through his shaggy hair with only the briefest glance in the mirror. He used to be a vain guy, he remembered that, but he couldn’t bring himself to care that much anymore. He still couldn’t stand to look at himself in the mirror too long. It always felt wrong. He’d also started to hate the way his eyes looked. They hadn’t changed much, in fact, they were less bloodshot and baggy than before, but something was still off. Something...not normal. He’d wanted to ask Steve, but had a feeling he wasn’t going to get his answer there, and so was content to simply look in the mirror as little as possible.

  
“Bucky? You up?” Steve’s voice came from a little down the hall, startling Bucky. Of course he wasn’t out running. He had a broken rib after all and had to rest. A twinge of guilt shot through Bucky and he itched at his metal bicep, squirming with the feeling. The Soldier hadn’t felt guilt for a lifetime; this sudden overwhelming amount of it was crushing him faster than he could let it out. Bucky made a noncommittal grunt from the bathroom, just loud enough for Steve to know he’d heard him.

  
“Breakfast in ten, alright?” Bucky grunted back something that sounded like “‘Kay.”

  
In five minutes he shuffled out to the kitchen, the customary knife tucked in the back of his pants. Steve didn’t like the weapons around the house, but Bucky had refused to let up on the matter, so unusually steadfastly that Steve had finally given in. Bucky needed to be prepared to defend Steve at all times. Steve beamed up at him from over a pan full of scrambled eggs. His gaze fell to Bucky’s side, where the bullet graze was and allowed himself a small frown.

  
“How are you feeling, Buck?”

  
“Fine,” Bucky muttered, eyes averted. He still wasn’t quite used to having people ask about him. “You shouldn’t be up and about with your rib, you know. You need to rest,” Bucky added, moving to grab the handle of the frying pan. Steve gently smacked Bucky’s hand away with the spatula.

  
“I’m fine, and you know it. Sit down, it’ll be ready in a moment anyway.”

  
Grudgingly, Bucky acquiesced, sitting down at their little kitchen table. It was big enough for four or five, comfortably, but the majority of the space was usually covered with domestic debris, receipts, junk mail, groceries, and other things Bucky didn’t understand. As he and Steve ate, a few quick words interchanged between mouthfuls, Bucky eyed Steve, looking for hints of discomfort. The bulky plaster cast was largely hidden beneath the baggy layers of Steve’s own sweatshirt, but the hints of stiffness still showed through the Captain’s typically immaculate posture. His carefully cultivated expression betrayed no discomfort however, and Bucky relaxed a little, feeling a little of the guilt pass. It didn’t stop him from clearing the dishes and attempting to wait on Steve hand and foot, insisting he lay down and rest for the day, much to Steve’s own complaints about Bucky’s “actually serious injury.” The throbbing ache diminished through the day, but Bucky could not help but think it was rightly deserved. Days passed and the incident was largely forgotten but for a single tally mark on the leg of Bucky’s bed.

 


	2. Glitch

SHIELD was busier than ever mopping up the remains of HYDRA, and, try as he might, Bucky was getting more and more exhausted by the number of sleepless nights and worsening wounds. He ran out of room on the first leg of the bed and moved to the second. Steve worried about the way Bucky’s eyes were changing and how much less he was making eye contact. But he chalked it up exhaustion and hoped it was nothing. Steve had always had the wonderful power of optimistic self-delusion, like his obscene hope as a young child that he would survive to the next year. It was only that impossible hope and a certain James Buchanan Barnes that had kept him alive, if only just, for so many years. He wondered if Bucky had felt the same way he did now, had watched the other waste away before his eyes, helpless but to be there and pray. Steve prayed for Bucky a lot now, though at times he wasn’t sure if praying did anything anymore. He eventually stopped. Life went on and Steve told himself he was just glad Bucky was back.

  
Their tense companionship lasted until almost a year since Bucky had come to live with Steve. It was a routine mop-up, they didn’t even really need the super soldiers for the likes of it, but nevertheless Bucky and Steve were running through the rat’s maze that is a secret HYDRA base, Bucky leading, infallibly leaving not a living soul to see the man only a few feet behind him. There were a suspicious number of fights in which Steve came out completely untouched with Bucky bearing an astounding array of injuries. It was after battles like these that Bucky actually seemed the happiest. That rare happiness was too precious, too distracting, for Steve to let himself examine it too deeply.

  
This particular run was no different, Bucky ten feet in front, one hand ready on the trigger. Steve had lectured him about gun safety, and Bucky would remember to keep the safety on for the first few minutes, but as soon as he got excited he completely forgot. He forgot to use his comms too, too used to working alone, but Steve always seemed to be talking into his wrist, so it evened out. This time was no different, Steve yelling formations into the comm over the sound of bursts of rapid gunfire, dropping his voice when they were back to moving quietly. They were approaching the junction point, the laboratories, which were always the most heavily guarded and most likely to randomly explode. That was part of the reason they used Steve and Bucky for these missions, less evidence was destroyed if you could sneak in and cut HYDRA out before they had time to finish the usual protocols. On Steve’s signal, Bucky ripped the door off of its hinges, raising his gun in the next second and leveling it at head height. The average man was about 5’8’’, and so was the typical height of the barrel of his gun. There was nobody in the room, which was always a bad omen, soon followed by the tell-tale clink of a grenade pin hitting the floor. Turning his back, Bucky dove at Steve, who was simultaneously leaping toward him, and shoved him to the ground, armored hand behind his back to cover their heads, abandoning his gun at the threshold.

  
Bucky felt the sudden rush of heat and more felt than heard the boom behind him, reverbrating through the concrete walls. A chunk of concrete hit him hard in the back, another fragment denting his arm. The combined blows knocked the breath out of Bucky, still half embracing Steve, who had his shield raised above both of their heads.

  
“Buck, you okay?”

  
“Yeah,” Bucky spluttered, trying to assess the damage. Nothing felt broken, definitely bruised, but nothing dangerous. The arm seemed to be fine, though he could hear the occasional sputter or hiss, even see the erratic stray spark or two, from the impact dent on his arm.

  
“You fine, Cap?” Steve nodded and stood, already barking a warning through his comm while Bucky scanned the wreckage and blackened concrete for the abandoned semi-automatic. The barrel was bent at a strange angle so Bucky left it lying there, reaching for the smaller gun on his back. There were voices now, and the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Bucky would have assumed they were SHIELD if not for the confused way Steve looked down at his wrist, as if checking his mental map of the complex. Reinforcements weren’t supposed to be here yet then. Rapidly loading his magazine, Bucky threw himself into the corner the voices should round in six seconds. He removed a miniature grenade from his belt, timed it, and let it roll, heard the sudden panic, and the following uproar of contained explosions and cries of pain. Leaping from around the corner, he took aim at the few who had lingered at the tail of the group, conserving bullets with fast, single shots. When all had fallen, he gave Steve the “all-clear” sign, waving him on. That was when it hit him, an incredible rolling wave of agony as his arm fell limp at his side, hissing and fizzling and sparking, getting hotter and hotter. With a yell he fell to his knees, clawing at the arm which smelled of smoke and would not stop sending pain flying up his arm. Bucky panicked, rewinding the whole invasion in his mind. A bomb? His mind went blank in agony and he sank to the floor, clutching at the seam where the burning metal met skin. In an instant, Steve was by his side, kneeling beside him. The Soldier tried to wave him away, mouth opening to form words as his vision darkened. In the next moment, Bucky Barnes was no longer screaming. He laid nestled in the Captain’s arms, arm sputtering and creaking, but slowly quieting. Steve held Bucky, unable to touch the arm, which felt red hot to the touch, and yelled desperate things into comm. Steve pulled Bucky aside against a wall, took the safety back off his gun and waited, face stony with determination but his heart rent in two with a sudden terror. The guard dog lay asleep under the Captain’s protection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one was pretty short. If anyone's reading this, I'd love to hear from you. Again, not beta'd.


	3. Limbo

Bucky awoke to the sound of waves, or so he thought. After a few seconds he recognized the sound as blood rushing in his head, which pounded with a tremendous headache. He’d had worse. Before his eyes even opened he felt a big, warm hand grabbing his human arm.

  
“Bucky, Bucky! Buck, look at me.”

  
Bucky cracked his eyes open and the bright light combined with headache sent a wave of nausea washing over him. He resisted the urge to close his eyes and get his bearings and sat up, looking at Steve. Steve’s face was flush, his eyes wide. He beamed down at Bucky with that impossible warmth that threatened to singe Bucky, causing an involuntary warmth to grow in Bucky’s chest. He’d always hated how Steve wore his every emotion on his sleeve. It made him too easy to manipulate, but Bucky secretly enjoyed the feeling of having been missed, wanted. It had never ceased to amaze him once he returned, and while he’d never gotten used to it, he coveted every second.

  
“Are you okay, Steve?” Bucky croaked, his hoarseness surprising him. His throat and vocal cords felt like sandpaper.

  
Steve laughed what might have been mistaken for his usual whole-hearted laugh, but Bucky could feel the subtle tones of unease that crept into Steve’s voice.

  
“My god, am I okay? Am I okay? Are you okay?”

  
Confused, Bucky glanced down at himself, now noticing the green, lysol scented hospital gown and cheap industrial sheets. He didn’t feel much pain, something he credited to the medications they must be dumping in his drip line, and looked back up at Steve with a forced, one-armed shrug. “Functional,” he said. Which was true. More or less.

  
Shaking his head and smiling slightly, Steve punched him lightly in the arm in light-hearted disbelief. There was something darker in his expression though. Something about Bucky’s tone bothered him. Functional. As if he were talking about a machine, not a body, much less his own. Steve decided not to bring it up and turned the conversation to Bucky’s arm.

  
“Any clue what happened back there?” he asked, gesturing broadly to the deadweight heap of metal grafted to Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky glanced at, as if in thought, eyes lazily scanning the pockmarked surface, resting one second on the smooth, sanded section where the red star had been painted, then down at the unmoving tangle of fingers, to the dent above his elbow, which still emitted the faint smell of burning chemicals, then lastly, and most briefly, to the shallow groove marking the edge of the small panel on the inside of the bicep. The corner of his mouth twitched up into a sort of tortured smirk. It wasn’t a smirk, though he was told that was what it looked like on the outside, but it was simply the motions his face went through when he was thinking. The traces of the man who’d come before, leaving the remnants of ancient mannerisms engraved into his muscle memory. It’s how he remembered how to smile. That hadn’t changed at all from the grainy black and white tapes they played on an endless loop at the Smithsonian.

  
Jerking his focus back to the conversation, he looked up at Steve, who had been watching expectantly, as patient as ever. “It shorted,” he said, quieter now to ease the burden on his throat. “I think,” he added haphazardly at the end. “Something like this happened once before, in the early days. They said it was a short,” he went on, voice trailing towards the end. He wasn’t quite sure. It had been the first arm, he clearly remembered that. There’d been an explosion, he didn’t remember where or why, that had sent him flying back. The last thing he remembered was the sickening crack of both arms breaking and the faint smell of sizzling flesh. The memory vanished for a long period there, peppered with vignettes of dark rooms and soft voices and a body poked full of needles. Somewhere in that jumbled medical mess were the disembodied phrases “short circuit” and “crushed the major relays.” The next arm was built far stronger, and heavier. He remembered the way it had pulled at the scar tissue and made his bones creak with the weight of it. He remembered the ghost of relief when the next arm a few months later had been lighter and didn’t leave smudges of dried blood on the inside of his uniform.

  
Bucky pulled himself out of the scattered pile of memories, trying to grab on to whatever Steve was saying. “... Anyway, I called Stark and he’s unsurprisingly eager to help fix you up. The hospital doesn’t want you to leave yet, but Stark Tower’s well equipped for this sort of thing. If you’re okay with that, I mean. If you don’t mind letting Stark mess with your arm. He’s the best there is, but he doesn’t really get boundaries and if you don’t want it to be him I can find someone else at SHIELD…” Bucky cut off Steve’s rambling with a purposeful grunt. “It’s fine.” It didn’t feel fine, but if Stark was the best, and Bucky didn’t doubt that he was if he was anything like his father, then Stark was the fastest route back to protecting Steve. To getting back to the mission. So he settled back into the too clean sheets and lightly closed his eyes, enough to let Steve know he was still listening, and tried to forget the sounds of screeching tires and shattering glass. “ACCIDENT” they had printed, in big bold letters. Bucky blinked the words off the back of his eyelids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading through! The next/last chapter will be one of the longest.


	4. Repairs

The next day he was released by begrudging but intimidated nurses and spent a quiet train ride to New York alternately staring blankly out the window and fiddling with his lifeless arm. Steve stayed quietly by his side, knees touching his slightly. It was the small gestures that got Bucky, the little things he’d would never have picked up on a year ago. The subtleness and comfort of human contact, for example. Steve jiggled his leg up and down nervously the closer they got to New York and it started to set Bucky on edge, but he said nothing.

  
Was Stark mad at him? He had every right to be. Could this arm business be just a ploy to get revenge while he was handicapped? It seemed unlikely, since Stark doubtlessly knew that hurting Bucky would bring on the wrath of the Captain, but the possibility lingered in the back of his mind. He was loathe to let anyone touch his arm, much less strap him down and fiddle with it for hours, or whatever it was Stark intended. But Steve trusted Stark, or he seemed to, and so Bucky would trust Stark too.

  
As promised, Stark had sent someone to pick them up at the train station. He’d actually offered to send a private plane to get them from in D.C., but Steve, to Bucky’s unvoiced relief, declined in favor of a train ride. A pleasant woman with strawberry blonde hair and an impeccably tailored outfit was waiting on the platform, introducing herself as Pepper. Steve hugged her warmly and Bucky decided he liked her. She turned with practice ease in her high heels and led the pair to the waiting car, a conspicuously expensive convertible Bucky didn’t recognize. Climbing in after Steve, who was already engaged in small talk with Pepper, Bucky scanned the crowded skyline, feeling his unease build when the top didn’t roll up. Paranoia had come part and parcel with the Soldier and each passerby was scanned for concealed weapons beneath Bucky’s practiced glaze. The sun catching in the high rise windows threatened the barrel of a sniper’s gun. Bucky moved closer to Steve in what he knew was a vain effort to cover him.

  
“...right, Mr. Barnes?”

  
Bucky spun around at his name in surprise, head cocked at the right angle to indicate that he hadn’t heard the rest of the sentence.

  
“Will you be alright staying in Stark Tower a few days while Tony works on repairing your arm, or would you prefer that I help you and Steve to book a hotel? Regardless of what Tony says, it’s up to you.”

  
Bucky looked to Steve, who shrugged, indicating he had no preference if Bucky did. Bucky tried to read between the lines of Steve’s expression before turning back to Pepper. “We would be happy to stay in the Tower, if we may, Ms…” here he paused, trying to remember the name from earlier, “...Ms. Potts.”

  
Pepper smiled coquettishly at the formality leaking out of the rag doll of a man. “Please, just call me Pepper.” With that, she turned back toward the road, ending the conversation for the slow ride through New York City traffic. Steve shot a strange glance at Bucky but made no comment.

  
Upon arriving at the Tower, they were quickly bundled through several layers of security, all of which Bucky made a compulsive mental note, before arriving on one of the top floors. The elevator doors opened to reveal an impish man, hair in a styled state of dishevelment with a well worn black t-shirt with the name of a metal band imprinted on it in bold letters. With the practiced countenance of the rich and famous, Stark grinned at both Steve and Tony, although a special smile was saved for Pepper, who promptly excused herself, leaving Stark’s eyes to linger on Bucky. Seeing that Bucky had noticed, Stark gave what was probably intended to be a sheepish grin and escorted the pair to a miniature bar, already bubbling with talk of new arm prototypes and “first a little getting to know you drinking,” to which Steve declined, reminding Stark that he and Bucky weren’t actually capable of getting drunk. This did nothing to discourage Stark, who seemed to be working through calculations in his head as he insisted there must be a way. The man seemed about ready to explode with energy as he milled about the room, talking to the air, a “JARVIS”, according to Steve.

  
Upon seeing that neither of his guests were in a solicitous mood, Tony dropped the rockstar smile and herded them into a room a little ways over.

  
“Welcome to the lab boys!” he said, whisking the door open to reveal a small workshop. The shelves and desks lining the workshop’s edges were cluttered with blueprints and books and all manner of electronic paraphenalia. Speakers seemed to be sprouting from the shadows and the faint hum of machinery echoed in every corner. The center of the room seemed to have been haphazardly cleaned off, leaving a desk, an assortment of mismatched office chairs, and piles of cleared out scraps piled around the edges. Upon closer inspection of the area inside the ring of mechanical debris, Bucky could see it had in fact been well cleaned, catching the faint smell of ammonia and grease. A line of miniscule tools that looked like they belonged on a dentist’s table were lined up carefully on one of the tables. They glinted dully, never used. On the other two tables was an assortment of cords and coils that Bucky couldn’t even begin to comprehend, much less catalog, that blinked lifelessly. Something in his mind recoiled at the sight of them, but he bit it back, forcing himself to walk into the center of the room and sit in the least comfortable looking chair, pulling over the softest looking one for Steve and leaving his hand pointedly on it.  
“Aren’t you eager?” Stark joked, his voice dripping with innuendo that both Steve and Bucky tried very hard to ignore. Behind Stark’s back, Steve made pointed eye contact with Bucky, mouthing the words “Okay?”. Bucky jerked his head in a forced nod, trying to smile a little bit to comfort Steve, who was fidgeting.

  
“Alrighty,” Stark mumbled, grabbing a few devices the size of quarters off of the table. Turning to Bucky, who didn’t quite make eye contact, the rockstar smile dropped a bit as he hesitantly stuck the first onto Bucky’s arm. The rest followed in a line down the arm, following the contours of the artificial muscle, one stuck dead center in the crater of a dent above the elbow. Steve didn’t sit down and just watched over Stark’s shoulder.

  
“Steve, relax! Just sit down. I can work in a lot of situations, even under threat of death, but you hovering over me, that’s different.” Stark had tried to infuse the remark with a lighthearted tone, but the effect was ruined by the hint of irritation is his voice. The mood was spiraling downward fast, although not for any lack of trying on Stark’s part, Bucky noted. “Sit here, Steve,” Bucky cajoled, his free arm patting the cushion of the chair next to him, trying to sound casual. He would never admit it, but he had come in terrified, which was completely illogical he continued to tell himself, and really needed Steve to calm down for both of their sakes. Steve gave Bucky a curt nod and sat down.

  
Clapping his hands, Stark stood back, examined his work, and then started toying with the monitor on the nearest table, muttering to JARVIS in what sounded to Bucky like almost another language. There was a faint noise, like the sound of opening a can of soda, and the little discs started to emit a soft blue gray light from where they were adjoined to the arm before settling into an almost inaudible hum. Bucky affixed his eyes on the little dots, unable to draw his gaze, thanking every deity he could name he wasn’t rigged to a heart monitor. He avoided Stark’s gaze and all three men simply sat and stared at the little metal discs.

  
After a solid two minutes, the devices shut off, the lights blinking out and the hum cutting off.

  
“Cool,” Stark said in what could only have been a feeble attempt to cut the tension. Stark grabbed a table from the corner and wheeled it over, kicking the mess out of his way as he went. “Alright, JARVIS, let’s see what we’ve got.”

  
A light blue hologram sprung to life a foot over the blank surface of the table. Bucky immediately recognized the hologram as his arm, mangled as it were. Stark grinned like the veritable kid in a candy store that he was. Turning so that Steve and Bucky could see while he worked from the other side, Stark began to interact with the projection, peeling off the outer layer to expose the wires and pistons inside. Having seen the inside of his arm any number of times, Bucky was surprised at the small gasp from Steve next to him. “That’s really what your arm looks like?”

  
“Yeah,” Bucky replied, sparing only a glance at Steve, riveted on the projection. The little panel was bared now, as were all of the arm’s inner workings, and the sight of it exposed sent a new panic coursing through Bucky. Would Stark know what it was? Would he find out? What if he took it out? What if he told Steve? The last question scared Bucky the most. He couldn’t let Stark mess everything up, but he was powerless now to do anything about it. The feeling was far from pleasant.

  
“You know,” Stark started, eyes still focused on the projection he was now digging around in, “I could totally build you a new arm. Way cooler. Lighter too. None of this Soviet scrap they’ve got you fused to. A little rewiring and I could fit way more features too. Wireless comms, vital monitors, all sorts of cool stuff. Gimme a week and I’ll have a prototype.”  
It all sounded good to Bucky, it really did. But no matter how many features Stark could promise to add, there was one he’d never think of and Bucky could never ask for. The old arm would just have to stay.

  
“This one is fine, Stark,” he replied, trying to soften the harsh tone. After a half-second he quickly added, “Thanks though.” Stark raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing more than “It’s Tony, please.” The silence pressed on for a few minutes, only interrupted by Stark’s murmured instructions to JARVIS to magnify this or bring back that. After a few more tense, quiet minutes, Steve piped up.

  
“So, can you tell what’s wrong? Bucky thought it coulda been a short,” he offered, attempting to be helpful.

  
“Yeah, definitely a short. The impact busted one of the main relays, so the mechanism shifted the load to the other two, but those overloaded too, for some reason. I’m not sure exactly why yet. HYDRA’s a bunch of morons, but that failsafe should have easily handled the impact, not shut down the arm. My bet’s something else in the arm’s overloaded one of the neuro-reaction circuits, fried a wire or two somewhere. In normal circumstances, the little malfunction would have gone unnoticed because it could be picked up by the rest of the system, but with the rest of the arm in overdrive to compensate for the downed relay, it’s possible that it couldn’t circumvent the little glitch and…” Tony illustrated the meltdown with splayed fingers and what was meant to be an explosion noise but just sounded like a raspberry. Bucky thought he understood most of what Tony had said; he had a good understanding of the basic workings of the arm. He looked up at Steve, who looked thoughtful and was now looking at the real arm with a puzzled expression.

  
“Got any ideas where there might have been a glitch, Frosty? Stark asked, looking at Bucky.

  
Bucky thought on it a minute before shaking his head. “No.”

  
Stark made a face and got back to work, now examining the other side of the arm.

  
“The scan indicates a possible original blow-out in Sector 41-J, sir,” JARVIS offered helpfully.

  
“Thank you, JARVIS,” Stark said to the air, rotating the projection to the certain sector. As he zoomed in Bucky’s blood ran cold.

  
“The hell’s this?” Stark asked, making a face at the row of tiny buttons. He looked expectantly at Bucky for an explanation.

  
“I didn’t build the arm,” Bucky shot back, his voice tinged defensively. In a minute Stark was lost in the diagrams as Bucky started to break out in a cold sweat.

  
“What I don’t get is why the hell there’s buttons on the inside of the arm. Means it’s not an automatic function, manual then. Hey, Sputnik, how long’ve you had this arm?”

  
“About 8 years, at least,” he replied, mind racing for ways to get out of this place before Stark delved any further. He was a genius, after all. It was only a matter of time before he caught on.

  
Stark toyed with the projection, his brow furrowing deeper and deeper in thought, one hand resting on his goatee. If not for the circumstances, Bucky might have found the look comical.

  
“The hell..” he muttered, now purposefully flicking through the projection, highlighting wires, his eyes darting between the diagram and the data flooding the edges of the projection. For a moment he just stared before his expression went slack, understanding ringing his features.

  
“Stark?” Steve probed, starting to get out of his chair. The sudden movement startled Bucky, who recoiled slightly, having forgotten Steve entirely. “That’s just...sick,” Stark whispered, eyes still locked on the hologram, seeing something hidden in the tangle of wires and circuits.

  
“What is it, Tony?” Steve asked again, his focus darting between Bucky’s stony, if pale, face and Tony’s expression of disbelief. Stark just looked up at Bucky, something different in his emotion. Bucky couldn’t tell what. Repulsion? Pity? Fear? Those expressions all looked the same to him and the suspense was tearing him to bits beneath his blank mask. Seeing no reaction from Bucky, Stark turned to the Captain.

  
“The arm works by creating a false set of crude nerves that connect to the nerves in the rest of Bucky’s body, which lets him control the arm like a normal one. The nerves can respond to commands from the rest of the body and detect pressure, but that’s about it,” Stark explained, taking a quick breath before continuing, ”That’s not the problem, though. It looks like HYDRA managed to find a way to replicate the signals for pain. That’s what the buttons are for. Built-in shock collar. Plenty of pain, but no injury.” Steve and Tony both turned to look at Bucky. Bucky couldn’t look either in the eye, not with that horrible expression of pain on Steve’s face. He just stared down at the ground, hair shielding his face from sight and blocking out the sight of Steve’s anguish.

  
“Buck, is that… is that true? I know HYDRA did some horrible things to you, but…” Steve pleaded with the back of Bucky’s head. Steve thought he saw Bucky’s human hand shaking from where it lay in Bucky’s lap half hidden.

  
Bucky turned his head to look at Steve and he swore he could hear his own bones creak.

  
“It’s true, but Steve, it’s fine,really, it’s been…” Bucky started in an effort to console the Captain, but Steve cut in. “No, it’s not fine. It was never fine. It’s not right to build something like that inside someone!” Steve yelled, his calm demeanor slipping away. Bucky flinched at the volume but did not attempt to speak up, keeping his eyes fixed around the Captain’s knees.

  
When the Captain had quieted into a silent outrage, Bucky tried again, “Steve.” Steve turned to look at Bucky, and then past him, and the look in his eyes made Bucky’s words catch in his throat. He’d very much upset the Captain. Withdrawing, he looked back toward the ground. He heard Steve give a sigh and then the sound of something plastic crashing to the ground and breaking apart. Bucky’s guess was a chair, but he didn’t look up to confirm it. To Bucky’s surprise, Stark said nothing.

  
“Sorry, I might need a moment,” Steve muttered, just loud enough for the half-apology to be heard. As Steve’s footfalls receded and Bucky heard the door click closed, he chanced a look up at the doorway, debating whether to follow the Captain to try to apologize. He wasn’t sure why, but something he’d done must have upset the Captain. Seeing Bucky start to rise, Stark turned back to face Bucky. “I don’t think it’d be a good idea for you to follow him right now. He’s pretty shaken by the looks of it.” Bucky nodded in acknowledgement and sunk down on the ground, legs crossed. He didn’t deserve a chair. Not after upsetting Steve. What had he done to upset Steve so much? Steve knew his history, things like this weren’t so surprising. Why was he so hurt? Setting his jaw, Bucky rubbed the palm of his human hand against the metal arm, fingers itching towards the panel. Catching himself, he pulled his hand away, glancing up at Stark through his curtain of hair. Stark made no indication of having noticed anything, intent on the display in front of him.

  
“What I don’t get,” Stark said, the words half-way directed at Bucky, half-way at no one, “is how that could have caused the overload. Those relays should have been unused for over a year now. If there’d been a glitch from before, it would have shown up by now. Without use, it couldn’t have shorted on it’s own, so…” Stark was quiet a moment, lost in thought.  
“Bucky?”

  
Bucky looked up in surprise. This was the first time Stark had actually called him by his name. “Could I take a peek at the real thing?” His pulse spiking again, Bucky did what he hoped was a nonchalant one-armed shrug. Stark knelt down on Bucky’s left, propping the arm on his knee and turning it gently so that the panel faced up.

  
Stark’s fingers ghosted over his bicep, searching for the tiny crack that lined the panel’s edge. Finding it, he gently slid the door back. The gentleness was entirely unnecessary, Bucky thought, seeing as he wouldn’t have really felt anything even if the arm had been working, but the soft touch did something for Bucky’s nerves. Stark looked at the little buttons and let out a low whistle, then glanced at Bucky apologetically. Bucky didn’t make eye contact, but didn’t look away from Stark. Stark just looked at the buttons a little while, not saying anything, just staring. Suddenly, he looked up at the door where Steve had left then straight at Bucky’s face. Unable to ignore him, Bucky raised his eyes to meet Stark’s.

  
“Is it possible that,” Stark whispered, almost in Bucky’s ear, “that you caused the overload? Have you been, uh, pressing the buttons?”

  
Bucky’s blood froze and his mind went blank in shock. He said nothing but his mouth opened a little, as if searching for words on its own. Bucky’s mind reeled for an answer that wouldn’t give him away, but nothing came to him and he just sat there, mouth agape and eyes still locked with Stark. Knowing the truth had been forfeited, he moved to stand, breaking eye contact.

  
“Wait!” Stark called out, his hand grabbing Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky whirled on Stark, bringing his face within inches of the other’s. Moving his shoulder so that Stark’s hand fell off, he stayed another second to be sure his message got across. “Don’t you dare tell Steve,” he growled, spinning on his heel to leave the workshop, which was starting to feel as if it was collapsing in on him.

  
“Just listen to me, goddamnit!” Stark called, not quite a yell, but commanding. The tone of his voice made Bucky stop halfway to the door and turn to face Stark, shoulders hunched like a cornered animal. This was the face, the look, Tony was familiar with from the surveillance footage, back when Bucky was the Soldier. Tony's mind calculated how long it would take to summon a suit and how long it would take for the Soldier to cross the room and kill him. The times were a little too similar and the Soldier had a slight speed advantage. Twisting his face into a resigned smirk, he tried again.

  
“Talk to me.”

“What the hell for?”

“About...why.”

“Why the fuck should I? It’s none of your business, Stark.”

“Yeah, well, I’m kind of famous for sticking my nose in other people’s shit. And, honestly, you need me 'cuz no one else is going to be able to fix your arm.” Seeing the strange glint in Bucky’s eyes following the last comment, Stark hastily amended, “That’s not a threat, by the way, I’m just putting the facts out there.”

  
“And what if I didn’t talk to you? What would you do?” Bucky shot back, eyes level at Stark and boring into him. Bucky’s whole personality seemed to have shifted. He’d gone from the scared little puppy at Steve’s heels to this terrifying weapon of a man who looked ready to tear down the Tower brick by brick if Tony so much as breathed wrong. Ignoring that fact, Tony gathered himself to answer, trying hard not to break eye contact.

  
“Nothing. But unless you give me one hell of a reason not to, I’m disabling that shit when I fix the rest of your arm up. I’m not sure about the whole telling Steve thing yet. I’d certainly prefer to die of old age, but in my line of work that’s not so likely anyway, so I’m not sure what to tell him when he comes back. If you talk to me though, you might get some input into what Steve finds out when he’s cooled off. Just a thought.”

  
Bucky thought about this, tried hard to actually think about it and not give into the impulse to just cross the room and smash in Stark’s smug face. He had found himself in a very tight corner and as little as he wanted to talk to Stark about anything right now, it was looking like that would be the best option. Bucky stalked wordlessly back over to Stark, taking no small amount amount of pleasure in the brief terror that flashed over his face before he realized Bucky had decided not to brutally dismember him. Forcing out a smile, Tony drew up one of the remaining office chairs and offered it to Bucky, who pointedly ignored it and continued to glare down at Stark. Stark just pulled up another chair and sat down across from Bucky, arms crossed in his usual stupidly defiant manner.

  
“Alright, Buck-o, why’d you fiddle around with the buttons? And don’t try to tell me it was an accident.” Bucky gritted his teeth and formulated his response. He wasn’t used to explaining why he did anything. Almost everything he did was orders or normal things like eating or sleeping, not exactly the sort of things that required explanation.  
“Punishment,” he finally replied, the word almost too quiet for Tony to hear.

  
“Punishment for what?” he coaxed. Tony had no idea what he was doing, but he figured getting the Soldier to talk was better than to let him continuing doing, whatever the hell that was.

  
“For failing the mission.” The words came out of Bucky almost automatically, slipping from his lips before he was fully conscious of the fact.

  
“The mission?” Stark asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Protecting Steve.”

“Protecting Steve. Last I checked, Captain America’s been pretty well protected. I’m missing the whole failure part.” Bucky made a creaking wheezing sound, which Tony belatedly realized was some sort of laugh.

“October 18th, mild burns and a cracked rib. November 3rd, tooth knocked loose and a broken nose. December 15th, broken rib. January 28th…” Bucky went on, listing date after date before finally concluding, “August 12th, assorted lacerations, one bullet graze, non-hospital grade.”

“That was….?” Stark asked, the answer starting to dawn on him before Bucky even responded.

  
“All of Steve’s injuries during our missions. Because I failed the mission,” Bucky answered, as if talking to an idiot.

“Jesus. You know this isn’t HYDRA, right? You’re allowed to mess up a little. To keep Steve from getting even a tiny scratch while taking down a whole HYDRA base is impossible. You’re succeeding in your ‘mission’ every time Steve only gets knocked around a little bit. Can you think of a time your injuries weren’t twice as bad as his? Can you? You’ve got it all memorized, for Christ’s sake!”

“July 28th, March 13th, and June 6th.”

“You’re saying Steve got hurt more than you three times. Out of how many..” Bucky cut Stark off.

“No. Those are the times Steve didn’t get hurt at all. It’s not impossible. I’ve done it, so the times I don’t…” This time it was Stark that cut Bucky off.

“That wasn’t my point! Besides, how bad did you get hurt on those missions? Steve is a super soldier like you, he can take a few hits. You’re throwing yourself in harm’s way for no good reason. Steve isn’t helpless, he can look after himself without you being his human shield.” Stark’s voice rose with irritation. Sure, he’d never really been the self-sacrificing type, but this was just extreme.

To Tony’s surprise, the Soldier didn’t respond for a while, just stared out at the wall behind Tony looking like he’d been kicked in the stomach. Looking suddenly deflated he mumbled something Tony didn’t quite catch.

“What was that?”

 

 

No response, and then:

“I know Steve doesn’t need me.” The words threatened to bring tears to Bucky’s eyes, but he quickly forced them back, trying to hide the trembling in his voice. Bucky had been grappling with the fact Steve didn’t need him for a long time. Steve was even stronger than Bucky, he could do the missions by himself or with some of SHIELD’s agents; he was just humoring Bucky. Bucky wanted to feel needed, like he mattered, but he knew Steve had given up on getting back his best friend. Steve didn’t need Bucky. There was no one out there that needed Bucky anymore. He couldn’t be the tool HYDRA had wanted and he couldn’t be the best friend Steve wanted. Not the agent SHIELD wanted or even the war hero the media wanted. He was a failure and admitting that hurt him in a way he’d never dealt with before, like losing his arm again, but so much worse.  
“You’re a fucking idiot.” The words were slow to Bucky’s ears and even slower to process. Blinking back the tears that threatened to spill, Bucky looked at Steve’s silhouette in the doorway.

  
“How could you even think I don’t need you, Buck? You used to be the only person I had. I have other friends now, but I’ll always need you Buck.” Steve strode across the room, taking Bucky into a rough embrace that nearly knocked him off his feet.

  
“I’m not... I’m not... I’m not that Bucky, Steve. You know that,” Bucky stuttered into the back of Steve’s head.

“I know that, Buck. But I don’t care. You’re doing your best, maybe even more than that, and that’s far more than anyone could ask for.”

A single tear fell down Bucky’s cheek and he raised his right hand to return Steve’s embrace, turning his head so Stark, who was standing awkwardly on the sidelines, couldn’t see the small sign of weakness.

“Can you forgive me?” Bucky croaked out.

Pulling back to look Bucky in the face, Steve spluttered out, “For what?”

“I let you get hurt. I hurt you too. And I hid stuff. And, and…” He trailed off as he was jerked back into another rough hug.

“I don’t care. I don’t care about any of that. I just want you to be happy, Buck. That’s all I want, really. Can you do that for me?”

Bucky nodded into Steve’s shoulder.

“Is that… is that a mission?” Bucky asked, a new feeling, a strange one, flooding into him.

“Sure, Buck.” Bucky looked up into Steve’s face and through the tears smiled his first real smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of this short little adventure. Thank you for reading all the way through! Take care!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This was written just to help me let off some steam (and feels) but I hope you enjoyed it too. Not beta'd, so feel free to point out anything I missed. I would love to hear from you, so comments are really appreciated! :)


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